


Having Slept, the Cat Gets Up

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Cats, Fluff, M/M, Q's cats - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:30:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: With how busy Q is, it's Bond who ends up taking the cats to the vet.





	Having Slept, the Cat Gets Up

**Author's Note:**

> For 007 Fest 2019 
> 
> Title is taken from Kobayashi Issa's poem: 
> 
> Having slept, the cat gets up,  
> yawns, goes out  
> to make love.

Bond’s office phone rang. He picked up immediately; usually it was Moneypenny, calling to tell him that M wanted him. (Sometimes it was Tanner, calling to tell him that lunch was off.) 

This time it was Q. 

“You know that thing in that place?” Q asked. 

“What do you want?” Bond returned. There had been a few things and places; Q had more than earned a favor. 

“Chavez called out sick; I need you to take my cats to the vet.” 

Bond let his incredulous pause elongate. Killing someone, fine. Cats…

“I have their folder here; they’re due at the office in an hour and 005 is in the weeds,” Q said. “Please take them. They’ll be in their carriers, you won’t have to handle them—” 

Bond realized that he was, like an idiot, arguing with a reason to be out of the office for three hours. Perhaps he and the cats would pick up lunch. “You owe me,” he warned Q. 

“Yes, fine,” Q said, and then the dial tone was ringing in Bond’s ear. 

*** 

In Q branch, one of Q’s lieutenants thrust a cat carrier, a thick manila folder, and the Aston’s keys at him with barely a glance away from her monitor. 005, it seemed, was in Moscow. In January. Poor sod. 

The car’s GPS sprang on with the rest of the car, guiding him to the vet’s office. The cats were quiet on the drive. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. 

Then they walked into the vet’s office. 

“Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmm,” the ginger cat said, low in its throat. 

“Mraaaaoooooooooooooow,” the black one yowled plaintively. 

Bond sat down. Next to them, a terrier mix started barking and its scruffy owner started shushing. In the corner, someone’s parrot started swearing. A child started laughing and repeating it; the parent ignored them. Everything smelled like animal and no one except him was wearing anything nice. 

He hardly blamed the cats for protesting. These were cruel conditions and Q definitely owed him. 

While Bond waited, he flipped through the cats’ folder for intel. Q’s cats, it turned out, were named Lucifer (the ginger) and Michael (the black); impudent mortals could shorten those to Lucy and Micky if they so dared. They were females, and they needed their annual vaccinations, worming, and a general health check. DO NOT SKIP, Q had typed out, bolded and underlined and in large font. EXPOSURE TO RATS CAN LEAD TO HEALTH CONCERNS. 

And the tunnels had their share of rats; it was the reason the cats were there in the first place. 

“Lucy and Micky?” the vet technician called. 

Michael hissed. 

*** 

The vet, Saunders, addressed him as Mr. Richards. Bond went along with it, and as a consequence he got to hear all about Lucy’s sensitive stomach( _I’m sure you’re watching to make sure she doesn’t eat any more string_ ), and Micky’s impressively clean teeth ( _Do you brush…? No?_ ). Bond answered all questions noncommittally and felt more and more like an absentee father, which was rather unfair given that it was Q who couldn’t be bothered to care for his feline offspring. 

(Apparently his Q-branchian spawn took priority, along with his double-oh stepchildren.) 

In between the interrogation, the vet offered the cats some fish flakes, confidently handled the beasts during their check-ups, ensured that all shots were administered, skillfully launched the cats back into their carrier, and told Bond that the cats seemed in good health and he looked forward to seeing Lucy and Micky again in six months. 

There was a careful lack of specification as to who would bring them. Bond wondered how many iterations of “Mr. Richards” the vet had seen. 

*** 

He took the scenic route home, stopping for a couple of take-away sandwiches, and ate one in the car. The cats took the last bits of turkey from his fingers, their reward for holding their shit in while they were in the Aston. 

“Back to Papa,” Bond told the cats. 

However, Q Branch was still a hub of tense activity when they returned, and it didn’t seem like the cats would make a good addition to the scene. Bond glanced around, stole one of the litter bins and a rolling cart, and trundled the cats up to his office. 

He got some funny looks in the lift, but no one said anything. Most people avoided questioning double-ohs; after all, the double-ohs might answer.

Ponsonby, the double-oh secretary, raised an eyebrow and definitely would have asked, only Bond shut his office door in her face. 

“All right, kitties,” he said, low so Ponsonby wouldn’t hear. “I’m opening the door. Please piss in the right box.” He set the litter box in one corner, set the carrier in the other, and unzipped the carrier’s top. 

Michael leaped out and stared at him. Lucifer flattened into a ginger puddle. 

“Right,” Bond said. “I’ll just…go over here.” He sat down at his computer and glanced at the clock; just past two in the afternoon. Might as well tackle the briefs in his inbox so Ponsonby didn’t have an excuse to bitch. 

*** 

By two-thirty, Michael had twined her way between his ankles and Lucifer had sprawled on his desk, batting the occasional paw at his typing fingers. If Bond gave either of them a scritch, that was his business. 

*** 

By three-thirty, Lucifer had settled in his lap and had started to purr and knead at his thighs. “These trousers are Tom Ford,” Bond informed her. She gave him a long, slow blink. Her eyes were almost as green as Q’s. 

Michael, less easily contented, started pouncing on his mobile charging wire. Bond rummaged in his desk and easily redirected her by wiggling around a blunted caltrop tied to the end of some detonation cord. 

*** 

By five-thirty, Bond and the cats were both grateful for the second sandwich. 

“Your father,” Bond informed them, “is going to buy me a much better dinner than this.” 

*** 

By seven, he had reached the impossible state of inbox zero. No more briefings to read. No more reports to fill out. At least not until Ponsonby tossed another heap at him tomorrow. 

He glanced at the cats, who were spooning near the heating vent. Lucifer was snoring. He could probably leave. Technically speaking, cats weren’t equipped to open doors, and he could just lock them in for Q to pick up. 

Instead he hit the recliner lever on his expensive office chair, adjusted it to nap position, and put on a Youtube video labelled TEN HOUR CRICKET MATCH CALMING. 

*** 

It was dark when he woke, jolted into awareness by the sound of boots on the floor outside, by the light streaming in from the crack under the door. The cricket match had auto-paused. His torso felt heavy—he had a cat curled up on his chest and one on his belly. He reached for the pistol holstered under his desk and readied himself to dump the cats on the floor if need be. 

“Lucifer?” Q’s voice whisper-called as the door slid open a crack. “Michael?” 

Bond let go of the gun. 

The bloody automatic lights, detecting either his or Q’s movement, decided to flicker on. 

“Oh!” Q stopped in the doorway, staring. 

Bond tried to picture it from Q’s point of view, the three sets of eyes blinking up at him, raccoonish under the fluorescents. He chuckled, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?” 

“Ah, just before midnight,” Q said, ducking his head with a guilty glance. “Bond, you didn’t have to…” 

“Don’t ask a double-oh to take care of your cats unless you want the cats to be taken care of, Q,” Bond said, smug. “Besides, they weren’t too bad.” He glanced down at them. Michael was already stretching awake on his thighs and she quickly jumped to the floor. Lucifer, on the other hand, mrrrped and curled her paws over her face, clearly ready to go back to sleep.

When Bond looked back up, Q was smiling softly. “No,” he said, kneeling to scritch behind Michael’s ears. “They’re not too bad.” 

“Don’t worry,” Bond added, “you can take me to dinner to make up for it.” He stifled another yawn.

Instead of protesting, Q only nodded, frowning. “Believe me,” he said. “I will.” He scooped Lucifer off of Bond’s chest, plopped her into her carrier, and chucked an unprotesting Michael in next to her. 

It was on the tip of Bond’s tongue to offer to drive them all home, but he sensed that that would be a bridge too far, proud as Q was. Instead he smiled and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Q. And Lucifer and Michael too.” 

“Thank you, Bond.” Q hefted the cat carrier in his arms and sighed in a way that seemed to deflate him. “If you want to take the day off tomorrow, I’ll make your excuses.” His shoulders drooped as he left, the very picture of an exhausted boffin. 

*** 

Despite his tiredness, Q texted him to be at The Ledbury the next evening. When he walked up to Bond outside, he was wearing a lovely plum suit that had no cat hair on it at all. They ate twelve courses and talked cats, suspense novels, engineering, uni, times they’d accidentally set things on fire, anything but espionage. Their eyes met frequently in the dim, glowing light of the restaurant, and Bond found himself laughing rather more than he had thought he would. 

At the end of the meal, Q’s tongue slid over his lower lip to catch the last taste of his pudding. The invitation to bed would have been easy, natural.

Instead Bond said, “Same time next week? My treat.” 

Q narrowed his eyes, as green as Lucifer’s but far more suspicious. “If you have time,” he said, hedging. 

“For Lucifer and Michael’s owner, time can be made,” Bond replied, and watched the pleased quirk of Q’s mouth with satisfaction. 

Rather like the cats, Q had surprised him with how pleasant he was to be around. Also rather like the cats, Bond suspected that a longterm operation would prove to be far more rewarding than a convenient in-and-out. 

Q’s suit on Bond’s floor would be nice. A future with more cat hair in it might, incredibly enough, be nicer. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is welcome <3


End file.
